


Lead On (My One)

by Momokai



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Body Dysphoria, Fluff and Angst, Geralt Doesn't Know How To Cope, Idiots to Idiots in Love, It's Bodyswap, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Rating May Change, Shenanigans, Slow Burn, Squishy Human Geralt, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Physiology, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), and kinda, bodyswap au, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22770418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momokai/pseuds/Momokai
Summary: Depending on how this ends, Jaskier will have a song damn it. It’s the very least he’s owed.Witcher for a day, without any say-
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 252





	Lead On (My One)

When Jaskier had woken early that morning and prepared for a day of hard travel and titillating one-sided conversation, he had set his expectations around the usual marker. You know, a ‘business as usual’ kind of deal. He probably should have known better, in all honesty- since when has anything _ever_ been usual in the presence of one Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, unfairly delectable White Wolf, Master of poor communication and however many other titles and witty descriptions any given situation called for at the time?

In his defence, while the bard’s imagination was an active and often times rampant thing, _this_ was a little outside of even his wildest imaginings.

"Well, this could be somewhat problematic.” Jaskier declares with the airy burgeonings of absolute -and dare he say, entirely warranted- panic, only to startle at the sound of his own voice.

A voice that is wholly familiar, yet rendered almost completely alien by the high, thready note of anxiety that stutters out of a chest that feels like his but really _isn't_ and sweet, merciful Melitele _he feels like he's about to explode out of his skin and do...he doesn't_ **_know_ ** _but something!_

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Jaskier clenches his eyes shut and forces his back -it's not his, none of it is _his-_ harder against the sturdy rock he'd woken against, using it to ground himself as he tries and only marginally succeeds in focusing on his breathing. Panic claws at the back of his mind with a ferocity he hasn't experienced in truth for a long time, and he has to force himself through some simple breathing exercises he'd picked up from his early days, when all he seemed to do was _choke on his own nerves_.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It’s hard, he thinks, when he swears he can _hear_ the air stuttering in his lungs. It’s harder, he thinks, when his chest is constricted not by the soft, airy fabric of his usual doublet, but by a layer of thick, hardened hide that sits somehow too-tight-but-just-right across his torso, held tighter still by the disconcerting weight of sharp metal strapped to his person.

There's a lot of strange, disconcerting things strapped to his person now, he thinks somewhat hysterically.

It's also hard, he thinks, when there's some odd, alien part of him that's demanding he get up, move, _do something_ that's not sitting hunched into himself, all but cowering against some rock in the middle of the woods at dusk. It’s a singularly novel feeling, and he decides he really kind of hates it, because what's wrong with sitting here and feeling sorry for himself when his whole world has apparently gone _insane_?

Nothing, that's what, and damn it he thinks he's well entitled to a little break down considering he'd woken up wholly confused by the fact he does _not_ remember falling asleep and then coming face to face with _his own face_ slightly dirt streaked and slack with a deep unconsciousness that's usually only encountered when one is either spectacularly sloshed or had a rather unfortunate encounter with the business end of _blunt force trauma._

He's pretty sure he can smell blood, which really, does _nothing at all_ to help his panic.

He can smell a lot of things, actually. Mostly unpleasant things. He's pretty sure there's something very, very dead nearby, and the thick, musty scent of horse is a thing that's… on him, he thinks. Horse, day old sweat, something sharp and strangely _tangy._ And blood. Oh is there blood- Jaskier's honestly surprised he can smell anything _else_ with how cloying it is, practically up his nose in fact.

It’s worrying, actually. Is he bleeding? Is _he_ bleeding?

With great trepidation and only marginally less panic, Jaskier cracks open an eye to glance quickly down at his person -insofar as it is _his_ person, anyway-.

Thankfully, he’s not immediately faced with vital body fluids gushing from his front, nor does he feel like any other unspecified body part should be, either. Small mercies.

It’s still uniquely alarming to look down and see something _other_ than what should be there, though.

He cracks open his other eye, and eeks a glance toward the body slumped bonelessly on it's back in the leaf litter not five feet away from his rather impressively sturdy boots. It’s strange how easily his eyes track to it, actually. He gets the feeling it should be harder in fact, considering he’s almost positive it’s darker now than when he’d first come too and promptly fallen into a panic.

He still kind of wants to panic, actually. It’d be so easy. It’s right there, after all, just waiting for him to invite it in and indugle in a little game of _what the fuck._

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It’s fine. Everything is _fine._

“Ok, Jaskier, you can do this.” Sweet, merciful Melitele, how does that actually _help._ It does, is the strangest thing. Personal pep talks, he’s found, are very hit and miss- but this one works better than any other he’s tried on himself, and he tries very, _very_ hard to ignore the somewhat resignedly besotted thought that he _knows exactly_ why.

Given his current predicament, that’s really not a train of thought he should be indulging. That way lay _distraction._

Jaskier eases himself out of the defensive hunch he’d taken up against the rock, and cringes somewhat guiltily as something probably valuable scrapes jarringly across stone. Oh gods, he hoped that wasn’t a _sword._

_Or two. There’s two swords strapped to his back right now ohsweetheavens-_

The thought promotes enough alarm that Jaskier somehow manages to stagger upright with only minimal flailing in his haste to _not_ damage any goods that most certainly are not _his._

He notices very quickly that his body feels _strange._ Bigger. The ground is further away than he expected and the weight of tough armor and countless _things_ attached to his person is...unwieldy. It's so far from anything he's used to that he almost pitches right over onto his face when he tries to take a step. He should probably try not to do that. Because that would be unfortunate. Not to mention embarrassing.

Geralt made it look so _easy._

Oh dear. _Geralt._

It's not a great leap to assume that if Jaskier is in this... _predicament,_ then Geralt has befallen the same. The alternatives don't even bear thinking about. He’s going to operate under that assumption until he's proven otherwise.

Gathering himself is a surprisingly simple affair with the scent of blood in his nose, and any lingering anxiety about _his_ situation is shoved aside by concern for _Geralt's._ Geralt, who is most probably inhabiting Jaskier.

His body, that is.

That doesn’t sound any better. _Distraction, please._

A body that _hasn't moved_ since Jaskier came too actually, and what a blunder on his part, he hadn't even _thought-_

He somehow manages the three or so steps it takes to get to the distressingly still form sprawled limply on the forest floor, and only barely stops himself from crashing to his knees in his haste to check the body- _Geralt_ over. That’s going to take some getting used to. It’s _his_ body, but currently _not_ and now is not the time-

He flutters his hands somewhat uselessly over -his- Geralt's shoulders for a moment before fumbling one of the thick gloves from his hands to shove his bare fingers under the others jaw in search of a pulse. His skin is cool to the touch, is Jaskier’s first thought, too cool, actually; but that can be explained away by the fact he’d been _laying out in the woods in late fall for who knew how long._ It’s with great relief that Jaskier finally finds the flutter of a heartbeat under his fingers, and exhales the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

Signs of life confirmed, Jaskier hastily pulls his fingers away, only to instead set about pawing over his doublet. He’d gone with the red today, he quite liked the cut of it and how nicely the color complimented his complexion. He ignores the fine tremours in his fingers as he carefully pokes and prods at the unconscious body under his hands, feeling a little like he might jitter out of his -Geralt’s- skin if he pays too much attention to the way the body he currently inhabits is apparently trying it’s best to convey how _not ok_ it thinks everything is right now. God’s, is this how Geralt always feels? Like he might explode at the slightest provocation? He thinks it might be adrenaline -do Witcher’s even _have_ adrenaline? Of course they do, don’t be an idiot, Jaskier- and if it is, he can't help but wonder if it's because he's been hovering at the edges of panic since he woke up, or something else.

If this was all it took to send Geralt’s body into fight-or-flight mode, no wonder the man locked himself down so hard.

Or maybe it’s just Jaskier.

…

Yeah. It’s probably just him. His decidedly unwitcherlike constitution is freaking Geralt’s body out. _Hah._

Jaskier’s fumbling yields a relieving lack of wounds, gaping or otherwise on his currently borrowed torso, so he at least has that going for him. The scent of blood is still very much present however, but for the life of him he can’t seem to find it’s _source,_ and so Jaskier balks silently at himself for a minute before deciding _fuck it_ and leans forward to give the-Jaskier-that-is-most-probably-Geralt a tentative sniff. He feels incredibly awkward doing it, but he reminds himself that he's watched the Witcher do the same on multiple occasions, and has seen -and is now in the process of experiencing- first hand just how powerful a Witcher’s nose is.

He still feels a little bit like some sort of animal, though.

Jaskier cringes silently at the thought, instantly contrite. No matter how tempting certain comparisons are at any individual point in time, Geralt is no _animal._

The apparent bard turned Witcher shoves aside all thoughts not currently relevant to the situation at hand and takes another, deeper sniff that provides him with nothing more than a confusing mire of _by the gods_ that almost makes his head spin. Really, how does any Witcher get anything done with all _this_ up their nose all the time?

Evidently, following ones nose is a much more complicated affair when one is a Witcher.

Jaskier is however a creature of determination if ever there was one, and he hunts the thick, coppery scent of fresh blood up the unconscious and presently Jaskierfied Geralt's torso and manages to deduce that he hadn't been too far off the mark when he'd thought of blunt force trauma.

Carefully, Jaskier slips his bared hand under Geralt’s head, and is instantly dismayed to be proven correct when his fingers encounter something warm and wet sticking clumps of his hair together at the base of his skull. _Ouch._

That’s not good. Jaskier’s had a concussion or two in his life, and he doesn't envy what his friend is going to wake up to. Besides the obvious, that is. That's even more not good. He really hopes Geralt knows how to fix this. As charming as this is -it's not- he can't see himself hunting monsters as a career choice. Now, writing and singing ballads about monster hunting? Much more his preference.

Beside's, he holds little hope for the quality of Geralt's singing voice. If even its very _existence_. 

Either way, Jaskier doesn't think his friend will be joining him in this no doubt magic induced travesty any time soon with a head wound like that, and unfortunately for them both, there's really not a whole lot he can do about it. If it was Geralt in his _own_ body, he'd likely be on his feet and grumbling already, or if not, Jaskier had long since deduced through his not-to-be-underestimated powers of observation which potion to pour down his throat if necessary

He knew better than to try that now, though. Geralt had told him what even the simplest of Witcher brews could do to an ordinary man. In detail, even. _Jaskier thinks he might have been a little over enthusiastic with the questions that fine morning._

So, splitting headache to go with his dashing change in status it is. Witcher to bard. _And hopefully back again_.

Depending on how this ends, Jaskier will have a _song_ damn it. It’s the very least he’s owed. 

_Witcher for a day, without any say-_

Leaves rustle alarmingly over head, and Jaskier startles, whipping his eyes up to boggle at the gently swaying branches above them. A light breeze pulls at hair much longer than he’s used to, and he shudders as the white strands tickle the sides of his neck. He lifts a tentative hand to carefully brush the bulk of it back over his shoulder, and is almost immediately distracted. It’s much softer than he thought it’d be.

A wolf's howl rends the previously peaceful air, and the bard turned Witcher snaps his head around to stare in the direction the sound had come from with no small amount of horror.

That had sounded far, far too close for comfort.

Swallowing thickly, Jaskier lurches to his feet and twists around to try and find some kindling. Fire. He needs to start a fire. If there's one thing he knows about traveling at night, it's that fire will keep most prowling things away. Probably not monsters, but wolves? Yes, that much he can do.

He hopes.

It's still a uniquely strange experience to have his eyes cut through the early nighttime gloom with an ease he’s never had before. He’d known, abstractly, that Geralt could see in the dark to some extent, but to actually _see in the dark_ is… well... It’s really handy?

A second howl joins the first, swiftly followed by a third, and Jaskier curses. There's nothing around that he can use for kindling, just damp twigs and leaves. He can't start a fire.

"Shit." He says, and it comes out rougher than anything he's said so far in this body, and he almost laughs, because for a moment he'd actually sounded the part.

Witcher senses, Jaskier quickly decides, are a blessing and a curse. The wolves that he can now hear moving through the underbrush sound much closer, so close in fact he's half expecting them to leap out of the bushes and rip out his throat.

 _What would Geralt do?_ He asks himself, and at least the voice currently panicking in his head is _his own_ when nothing else is. What _would_ Geralt do? Well, he wouldn't be terrified of some measly wolves, for one. He could maybe try drawing one of the swords from his back, but it's been so many years since he'd half assed his way through the forced swordplay lessons when he'd still been _Julian_ he'd probably trip and impale himself on it.

And Geralt might actually kill him if he accidentally lost or damaged one of his blades.

More howls pierce the air, and Jaskier decides a tactical retreat is the better part of valor. He turns on his heel and almost trips right over Geralt in his haste to find him, and stoops to grab two fistfuls of his favorite red doublet, fully prepared to drag his unconscious friend through the woods- only to pause in consideration.

He'd seen Geralt toss grown men around like they weighed no more than a sack of flour. Jaskier was currently in possession of more muscle than he'd ever considered a possibility for himself.

He released the doublet and shoved a hand under a pair of limp knees before carefully worming the other under Geralt's shoulders. He sent a brief prayer to Melitele before heaving himself up.

Only to almost immediately topple backwards. He grunts as he hastily corrects, just barely avoiding pitching them both to the ground, and then promptly spends precious seconds just _standing there_ , mistified.

The body in his arms barely weighs _anything._

Truely, he'd carried _sacks_ that weighed more- either he really needed to pack on some pounds, or Geralt was a lot stronger than Jaskier had realized. The thought is… not an unattractive one.

_Flee now, wax poetic later!_

Right! He has a Witcher in distress in his arms. Or is that a bard in distress? _He has Geralt in distress_ and there are _wolves man-_

Jaskier lurches away from the rocky out cropping they'd ended up in and in a direction that is decidedly _away_ from the teeth and claws. He makes an effort to watch his footing, not wanting to trip with his arms full of such precious cargo, and with Geralt's eyes it's actually a lot easier to manage.

He's probably making more noise than strictly safe considering he's trying to get away from a pack of ravenous wolves, but a Witcher's body does not a Witcher make, and Jaskier has the grace and dexterity of a drunk dwarf when fleeing for his life. It's probably more luck than any amount of skill that he _doesn't_ pitch them both down a slope.

The wolves seem unnaturally loud in the gloom, and Jaskier curses and pushes himself to move a little faster, picking up from a fast walk to a brisk jog. He's a little surprised at how easy it is, he knows he shouldn't be, not really, but he _is._ Jaskier is no slouch in the fitness department. He travels too much to not be able to put some distance behind him on any given day- but he has his limits. In Geralt's skin, he's not even winded. He's wearing armor and carrying a whole person and he's not tired _at all._

It's kind of amazing.

It takes a few moments for him to realize the wolves don't sound like they're nipping at his heels anymore, and Jaskier tentatively slows to a stop. He doesn't know how far he's brought them, doesn't even know which direction he should be heading -in all honesty he'd kind of panicked- but for now he thinks it's safe enough for him to take a moment to consider his options.

He would have, really, except a loud snort trumpets out of the dark to his immediate left, and Jaskier is abruptly made aware of just what a shrieking Geralt actually sounds like.

Jaskier clutches his burden to his chest and whirls on the source of the sound, only to be met a horse.

A highly unimpressed horse.

 _"Oh thank Melitele."_ Jaskier wheezes as he loosens his probably uncomfortably tight hold on Geralt. Roach flicks an ear at him, and tosses her head with another explosive snort. Jaskier sighs.

"Don't even ask."

**Author's Note:**

> Roach: Where have you been!?  
> Jaskier: -Screams in Geralt-  
> Roach: What did you do!?


End file.
